Determined Lady

‘Indeed?’ Brows rose yet again, but there was anger now inside him. Gone was the mockery. He didn’t like her attitude, the way she was sticking up for herself, the things she was saying. He had probably never met anyone like her before.

Saira knew she ought to watch herself but instead she stamped her foot. ‘Lord, you’re the most infuriating man I’ve ever met. You say you have proof? Well, show it to me.’

Thick brows rose reprovingly. ‘Why should I do that when I have no proof that you’re who you say you are? Lizzie never mentioned you to me.’

‘And she never mentioned you to me,’ Saira flung back.

‘Then we’re in a stalemate position, wouldn’t you say?’ Eyes locked, hostility reigned; it was a battle royal they were fighting.

‘This is an intolerable situation,’ she cried. ‘Where the hell am I going to sleep tonight if I can’t get into the cottage?’

‘You could go home,’ he suggested easily.

‘I have no transport,’ she told him, ‘and even if I had I wouldn’t go, not until this matter’s sorted out.’

‘So how did you get here?’

‘I came by train and taxi,’ she told him coolly.

‘And you dismissed the driver without first of all making sure that you could get in?’ He made it sound as though it was an incredibly stupid thing to do.

‘I never dreamt for one moment that the key wouldn’t fit,’ answered Saira hostilely. ‘Do they have rooms at the Challoner’s Arms?’

‘I’m afraid not.’ And he looked as though the fact pleased him.

Saira eyed him stormily. ‘I’ll find somewhere to stay. I’m most definitely not going home until I find out who the legal owner of Honeysuckle Cottage is.’ She would ring her employer and tell him that she was taking the few days’ holiday he owed her.

‘You’re a hell of a determined lady, I’ll say that for you.’ It was a grudging compliment.

Saira had never needed to stand up to anyone the way she did to this man; she was seeing a new side to herself. But there was a whole lot at stake and she had the feeling that if she walked away from here now she would lose the cottage altogether. ‘Where’s the nearest hotel?’ she asked.

‘Thirsk, I expect.’

‘Then perhaps you’d kindly ring for a taxi and I’ll book myself in there. But I’ll be back, Mr Brent, you can be sure about that.’ She would phone her mother and ask her to send Mr Kirby’s letter. With a bit of luck it would come in the morning and then she could present Mr High and Mighty Brent with it. That would wipe the smile off his face.

‘I have a better suggestion.’

Saira frowned suspiciously. She didn’t like the look in his eyes.

‘You can be my guest.’

‘And stay here,’ she derided, ‘in the camp of the enemy?’ This was the last thing she had expected and it wasn’t what she wanted at all. ‘No, thank you.’ Lord knew what his motive was, but it didn’t appeal to her one little bit.

‘I wasn’t talking about Frenton Hall,’ he answered impatiently. ‘I was referring to the cottage.’

Saira frowned. ‘That doesn’t make sense. You’re claiming it belongs to you, and yet you’re prepared to let me use it. Why?’

‘Just until the legalities are sorted out.’ The wolfish smile on his face suggested that he knew what the outcome would be.

And although half of Saira’s mind screamed that it was wrong, the other hot-headed half agreed. It was her right, after all. This thing had to be sorted out, and being here on the spot was the best way to do it. ‘I guess your conscience is bothering you?’

‘I was merely thinking of you,’ he announced carelessly. ‘It seems a bit pointless going into Thirsk when the cottage is sitting empty.’ He took a key off the keyring in his pocket and handed it to her.

So the man had a heart, of sorts! Saira eyed him with no real pleasure. ‘I’d like to say it’s very kind of you but I don’t think kindness plays a part in it. I shall be back, of course, with the necessary proof, and then you’ll see for yourself that Honeysuckle Cottage is most definitely mine.’

Head high, Saira marched out into the hall and across the polished wooden floor to the door. Mrs Gibbs was nowhere in sight and when the door would not open it galled Saira to have to stand back and let the obnoxious Jarrett Brent do it for her.

‘Goodbye, Miss Carlton.’ The aggravating smile was on his lips. ‘I shall look forward to your next visit.’

His nearness was a very real threat. Saira felt her heart beat unusually fast and was intensely aware of his raw masculinity and the danger he posed. This was no ordinary man. He appeared laid-back and friendly but beneath the surface he was as hard as steel. OK, he had offered to let her use the cottage, but she was damn sure it wasn’t a simple, generous gesture. There had to be some motive.

She walked stiff-backed all the way up the long drive, wondering whether she was being watched or whether he had closed the door and immediately forgotten all about her. Meeting a man like Jarrett Brent was certainly something she had never expected when inheriting her aunt’s cottage. She couldn’t accept that he was a friend of Lizzie’s. No friend would take your home from you. He had to be lying, and she was determined to find out the truth.

CHAPTER TWO

SAIRA felt oddly uncomfortable letting herself into Honeysuckle Cottage, and she blamed Jarrett Brent for it. He was trying it on, she felt sure, making out he had bought the cottage when really he hadn’t, but he was so convincing that there had to be some thread of truth in his story. Maybe he had been friends with her aunt; maybe he had once mentioned buying her property— but Lizzie’s will was surely proof enough that nothing had ever been done about it?

The front door led straight into the sitting-room and she dumped her bag and looked around, smiling sadly to herself. It was just as she remembered: a little dusty, but otherwise looking as if all her aunt had done was step out for a while.

It was a comfy, cosy room, the traditional chintz very much in evidence, lots of brass—which needed cleaning—lots of pictures and ornaments and lace mats, the usual bric-a-brac old ladies would collect over the years—and, most poignant of all, her aunt’s rocking chair.

Saira felt tears spring to her eyes and her mouth twisted ruefully as memories flooded back. She had spent so many happy hours here; her aunt had read to her, played with her, loved her, kissed her better when she fell down, bathed her, fed her, brushed her hair; and as she grew older listened to her teenage problems, dispensed advice, never lectured, always understood.

Saira’s own mother had always been very strict and consequently Saira had never been able to talk to her, always turning to Aunt Lizzie. She truly missed her.

But it was no good standing here crying, she must ring her mother, she must sort Jarrett Brent out. Mentally she straightened her back. To her horror the telephone line was dead, and when she tried the light switch there was no electricity either. Not altogether surprising, since the cottage had lain empty for a couple of months, but she began to wonder whether Jarrett Brent hadn’t deliberately suggested she stay here knowing there were no conveniences. From what little she had seen of him so far it seemed the sort of despicable thing he would do.

Her first thought was to march back up to the Hall and confront him with it, but that was probably what he expected; he probably even hoped she would turn around and go home! It had been his cruel way of getting rid of her.

Saira’s chin came up with characteristic stubbornness. She could manage for a day or two; she would light a fire to heat water, even cook that way if necessary. He would soon find she wasn’t so easily put off.

Saira used the phone box at the end of the village and Margaret Carlton was equally horrified by the claims this man was making. ‘Of course I’ll send you the letter, but why don’t you go and see Mr Kirby? Goodness, Saira, do you want me to come and sort this man out?’

Saira laughed, though there was not much mirth in her voice. ‘Really, Mother, I can look after myself. I just need proof that I’m Elizabeth Harwood’s niece and that I’ve inherited the cottage.’

Perhaps her mother was right, though, and she ought to see Mr Kirby, thought Saira as she made her way back. She glanced at her watch; almost four on a Friday afternoon—far too late. But on Monday, if nothing had been sorted out, if Jarrett Brent hadn’t done the decent thing and admitted that the cottage belonged to her, she would go to see him.

She found firelighters and matches and coal and soon had flames leaping up the chimney. But her sense of achievement was short-lived when foul-smelling smoke bellowed back into the room, making her cough and choke and run to open doors and windows.

Having only ever known central heating, Saira wasn’t familiar with open fires and it took her a second or two to realise that the chimney must be blocked—probably by a bird’s nest.

The acrid smoke belched out ever more thickly and, not knowing what else to do Saira filled a jug with water and flung it over the coals. The joys of country living, she thought despondently. Oh, well, a sandwich and a glass of milk would have to do for her supper—if the village shop was open! Otherwise it would be another visit to the Challoner’s Arms.

Fortunately the shop had not closed and Saira stocked up with a few provisions, and found out that Mrs Edistone had already spread the news that Saira Carlton was claiming Honeysuckle Cottage. ‘I wish you luck,’ said Mary, the elderly shopkeeper; ‘the squire’s not an easy man to tangle with.’

Saira spent the next hour cleaning and polishing. Little smuts of soot had settled everywhere and the smell was acrid. Aunt Lizzie had kept the place spotless and Saira wanted everything to be the same; she wanted nothing changed.

She slept that night in her aunt’s spare bedroom, the one she had always used as a child, the one with rosesprigged wallpaper and old walnut furniture, and although she was desperately tired thoughts of the obnoxious Jarrett Brent kept her restless.

The day’s totally unexpected events churned round and round in her mind—and she still had a fight in front of her! Something else puzzled her, too. There was something about this big man that nagged in the back of her mind. She felt sure she had seen him some place before but could not work out where. She tossed and turned and thought and pondered, but no answer came.

She was up at dawn and thought longingly of a cup of strong, hot tea, and to take her mind off it she went for a walk. She watched the sun paint the sky with touches of red and gold, she walked through the lanes, she looked at Frenton Hall and called Jarrett Brent all the names she could of, and then went back to the cottage and ate cornflakes with cold milk.

What time did the postman come? she wondered, sitting in her aunt’s rocking chair, positioned where she could see out of the window. Aunt Lizzie had spent hours here watching the world go by and now Saira did the same, rocking backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards, her thoughts seesawing in just the same manner, from Jarrett to her aunt, from her aunt back to Jarrett. Could she believe that he’d had some sort of friendship with her?

It was almost nine before she saw the familiar red post van making its way slowly down the street and she was outside on the doorstep when he neared Honeysuckle Cottage. ‘Saira Carlton?’ he asked, and when she nodded, ‘I didn’t know anyone was living here. I heard the old lady had died. A shame, I liked her.’

‘That was my aunt,’ said Saira, and hoped he was not going to stay and talk too long. She was anxious now that she had Mr Kirby’s letter to go up to the Hall and confront Jarret! Brent. He would not expect her to get irrefutable proof quite so quickly.

To her relief the postman bade her good-day and continued on his rounds and Saira, after checking to make sure it was Mr Kirby’s letter, pulled on her jacket and set off for the Hall. She kept her finger on the bellpush for several seconds and when Mrs Gibbs opened the door Saira smiled wickedly. ‘I’d like to see Mr Brent, please.’

‘Is he expecting you?’ The same dour expression was on his housekeeper’s face.

Here we go again, she thought, and tilting her chin she looked the woman in the eye. ‘Oh, yes, he’s expecting me all right.’

‘I have not been told.’

‘Nevertheless he is expecting me,’ Saira insisted. Did this woman have orders or something to let no one through? ‘Is he in?’

‘Well, yes, but——‘

‘Then kindly tell him I am here.’ Saira impressed even herself with her manner. It was actually quite alien for her to behave like this, but this man really rubbed her up the wrong way. She would get nowhere if she kowtowed; she had to be strong.

He was here now, walking towards the door, wearing a navy suit with a white silk shirt and a maroon spotted tie. ‘What are you doing here this early?’ His eyes were cool and hard and Saira resented the two steps up into the house which gave him an even bigger advantage.

She stretched herself up to her full height. ‘I told you I would be back.’

‘But not this soon; I wasn’t expecting you today.’ A frown of annoyance creased his brow.

‘Well, I’m here, and I have my proof,’ she told him haughtily. ‘May I come in?’

‘I was actually on my way out,’ he announced, a touch of arrogance in his tone now. He was clearly not used to having his plans thrown into disarray—or was it hotheaded women on his doorstep who annoyed him?

‘It won’t take long,’ said Saira, and ascended the steps before he could say another word, standing as close to him as she dared, silently demanding that he let her in, feeling the pungent smell of his aftershave assail her nostrils.

Very reluctantly he stood back for her to enter. ‘I hope not.’ There was extreme irritation in his voice.

‘Not as far as I’m concerned,’ she replied, smiling boldly.

It was not to the library he led her this morning, but a sunny breakfast room at the back of the house, the remains of his meal still sitting on the table. He saw Saira cast an inquisitive eye over it. ‘Is this more to your liking? Is this lived in enough for you?’ he asked sardonically.

Saira nodded. ‘It’s better. I take it you’re not married, Mr Brent?’ The question popped out without any warning and she would have liked to retract it but it was too late. In any case she wanted to know. She was curious about this man who was claiming her property.

‘As a matter of fact, no,’ he answered, looking surprised by her sudden question.

‘And you live in this huge house by yourself?’

‘For the moment, yes, but why the questions?’ he asked with a frown. ‘I thought you were here to discuss Honeysuckle Cottage.’

‘Yes, I am,’ she returned sharply, annoyed by her own digression. His marital status was of no importance whatsoever. She delved into her bag. ‘I have here the letter from Mr Kirby, my aunt’s solicitor. Please read it.’

His fingers brushed hers as he took the single sheet of paper and Saira jerked away, unable to make up her mind whether his touch was deliberate or accidental. Whatever, it had a profound effect on her, almost as though she had been burnt. It was an astonishing feeling.

And if the touch had been deliberate, what did it mean? Had he realised that he was up against a tough woman, someone who would not easily relinquish her hold on the cottage, and thought he would appeal to the feminine side of her? Or was she letting her imagination run riot?

Saira squashed the traitorous thoughts immediately, watching Jarrett Brent as he read Mr Kirby’s letter, shocked beyond belief when he thrust it dismissively back into her hand.

‘This doesn’t mean a thing,’ he said harshly.

‘What do you mean, it doesn’t mean a thing?’ cried Saira, unable to accept that he was dismissing it out of hand. ‘Of course it means something; it means the cottage is mine!’ She was really uptight now; she had been so sure that this was indisputable proof.

‘And how can that be when I say I own it?’ Profound blue eyes held her trapped like a deer in a car’s headlights.

‘Prove it,’ she said furiously.

There was a sudden gleam in his eyes and his lips curved into their usual contemptuous smile.

Saira fumed. He was so damn sure of himself. Could he possibly be right? Maybe she ought to have spoken to Mr Kirby first, brought him with her perhaps? She was too impetuous for her own good. She had the feeling that she was getting deeper and deeper into this thing instead of being somewhere near solving it.

‘I can’t at this moment, I’m afraid.’ His eyes pierced hers with an intensity that was intended to put her down, his tone in no way apologetic.

‘I bet you can’t,’ she snapped, prepared to wager her last penny that he just didn’t want to admit that he was in the wrong. Either that or he was playing some game with her, though for the life of her she could not think why.

‘But I’ve no doubt I’ll come across the relevant documents,’ he added.

‘I’m sure you will—when it suits you.’ Saira’s tone dripped sarcasm. ‘And meantime I’m left in a state of limbo. That is not satisfactory, Mr Brent.’

His lips quirked, as though he was enjoying her high dudgeon. ‘It is the best I can offer.’

‘And how long do you intend to keep me waiting?’ Saira felt an electric tension crackling between them. Lord, she hated this man; was there ever anyone more disagreeable? Why was he acting like this? What was he hoping to gain?

‘Is there any rush, Miss Carlton?’ Cool eyes never wavered; they pierced her with an intentness that was extremely disconcerting. She had never felt more at a disadvantage.

But her chin was high as she answered. ‘As far as I’m concerned, there is. I’d like to settle this matter as soon as possible. I don’t like being kept dangling like a fish on a hook.’ He was probably expecting her to complain about the lack of amenities in the cottage, but she was damned if she would. There was no way she was going to let this man get the better of her.

He smiled suddenly, surprisingly, a wide smile that softened the harsh lines on his face. ‘A very beautiful fish.’ But his narrowed eyes were unreadable. ‘I’ll do my best, that’s all I can say.’

Saira dismissed his flattery out of hand. ‘This doesn’t mean a thing to you, does it?’ she flared. ‘You don’t understand or care that to me it is very important. A cottage is a cottage as far as you’re concerned, bricks and mortar with no sentimental value. You’ll do whatever you want without a thought that it was my aunt’s home for most of her life, tended lovingly, and then left to me so that I could give it the same thoughtful care.’

‘As I said before, your aunt never mentioned you,’ he reminded her.

Saira lifted her shoulders. ‘That doesn’t mean a thing. There was no reason for her to. And it’s my aunt’s property we’re discussing, not my aunt or my relationship with her.

‘My property,’ he amended, and the smile was gone as swiftly as it had appeared.

‘If you bought it, then you some way swindled her out of it,’ she cried recklessly. ‘I shall get to the bottom of this, Mr Brent, you can be sure. I shall expect proof from you tomorrow; I want you to bring the deeds to me and show me that the cottage is really yours, and if I don’t get proof then I shall go and see Mr Kirby.’

‘You’re a hell of a fiery lady, Miss Carlton.’ There was once more grudging admiration in his voice.

‘I guess I have to be with someone like you,’ she riposted. There was no way she could meekly accept his word. She was fighting as much for Aunt Lizzie’s sake as her own.

‘Someone like me?’ he pondered, an eyebrow quirking. ‘I’d be interested to hear exactly what you do think of me.’

‘Oh, I don’t think you would,’ retorted Saira with a half-laugh. ‘It wouldn’t be fit language for a lady.’

‘That bad, huh?’

‘That bad,’ she agreed. ‘You’re the most obnoxious person I’ve ever met.’

‘And all because your aunt sold me the cottage?’ Brows rose, blue eyes challenged and Saira felt a strong, deliberate, sexual challenge as well. It was nothing she could put her finger on, it was just there, hanging in the air between them.

Nor could she deny it. Her heart hammered and she licked suddenly dry lips; her heart went boom and her skin grew warm. ‘All because you say Aunt Lizzie sold it,’ she retorted. ‘Personally, I do not believe you, and the fact that you haven’t produced any proof is surely evidence enough? What reason would you have for holding back on it?’

‘I never do anything without a reason, Miss Carlton.’

Her eyes flashed. ‘But you’re not going to tell me what it is? You’re playing some sort of game that only you understand?’

‘You could be right,’ he answered easily.

‘Of course I’m damn well right,’ she snapped. ‘Lord, you take some understanding. It’s no wonder you’ve never married; no woman would ever put up with you.’

His smile faded. ‘My bachelor state is of my own choice,’ he told her coldly. ‘How about you, Miss Carlton? No ring on your finger either, I see. Am I right in suspecting that it’s your prickly nature that puts men off?’

Saira drew in a deeply aggrieved breath. ‘For your information, Mr Brent, I’m not usually so abrasive.’

‘So it’s me who rubs you up the wrong way?’

‘That’s right.’

‘It need not be,’ he told her calmly. ‘If you’d only accept that your aunt——‘

‘Never!’ cut in Saira fiercely. ‘A legal document is surely more binding than your word?’

He laughed. ‘But you’re forgetting, I haven’t seen a legal document, just some letter, not your aunt’s will. Anyone could have written that. You could have done it yourself for all I know.’

‘Then I suggest you ring Mr Kirby and verify it,’ she blazed.

‘Maybe I will on Monday,’ he agreed, much to her surprise. ‘Meantime, enjoy your stay in the cottage.’

‘Meantime, I want your proof tomorrow,’ she slammed back, and then turned and marched out of the house.

As she walked back down the drive she felt as limp and washed out as if she had been put through an old-fashioned mangle. It was difficult to believe how arguing with this man could drain her so much. God, he was detestable. He was virtually laughing in her face and she was expected to sit back and take it. Not on her life. This would probably be the strongest battle she would ever fight—but she was determined to win.

The day dragged interminably slowly. There was not much she could do without a car. Trust her old Fiesta to break down at a time like this—not that she would have trusted it to make the journey here. She really ought to invest in a new car. And if she had still been going out with Tony he would have brought her. Everything, but everything, was conspiring against her.

Tony had been her boyfriend for two years and she really had thought they would get married as soon as he’d finished law school and found himself a job. Originally he had trained in the police force but had then decided it was not for him, so even though he was twentyseven he was a student and not earning any money.

When he had declared only two weeks ago that he thought their relationship was getting nowhere and they ought to part, she hadn’t been able to believe it. She had never minded that they couldn’t very often afford to go out. It wasn’t until one of her friends told her that she had seen him with another girl that it all became clear. The break-up had left her very bitter. If he’d had the guts to tell her that there was someone else she would have thought more of him.

He wasn’t the only man to two-time his girlfriend, either. She’d had friends who’d been let down in a similar manner and it left her with a very bad taste in her mouth as far as the whole male race was concerned.

She ate again at the Challoner’s Arms, took a stroll through the lanes, and went to bed early. How long Jarrett Brent was going to keep her waiting, she didn’t know. Would he come tomorrow with proof or would it be up to her to go and see Mr Kirby?